


Dolor est voluptas

by AnnaFaie



Category: Killjoys (TV)
Genre: F/M, Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFaie/pseuds/AnnaFaie
Summary: Set before season 1.Dutch is restless: Alvis has a way of helping.





	Dolor est voluptas

Lucy is silent but for the quiet hum of the oxygen system. It’s summer, and the heat outside is sweltering, suffocating. Dutch pours herself another glass of cold water, downs it, feels it drop into her empty stomach. She’s restless - they’ve not had a warrant in a week. The summer lull means boredom for most Killjoys, and Dutch has never taken boredom well. John is away somewhere, trying to find an obscure part “absolutely critical” to mending some bit of Lucy’s nav system. It has taken two days for Dutch to drink her way through their stash of hokk and start pacing like a caged animal. 

“You called?” 

She spins to see Alvis in the doorway, brandishing a bottle of something covered in condensation. 

“Is that...?” 

“Cold lemonade. I thought it best to avoid alcohol, since...”

She covers the distance separating them in two strides, takes his face in her hands before kissing him. The monk tastes, as always, of lemons and some kind of herbal tea, and his lips are soft, pliant. His face is flushed, hair damp with sweat as she slides her fingers through it. Dutch presses herself against him, grinning. 

“It’s been a while.”

“And you’re bored. Pree said you’d almost started a fight with five men twice your size last night.”

He understands her restlessness in a way that Johnny never has. Johnny would tell her to enjoy the joy and the vacation, to kick back and drink, or entertain herself with one of Pree’s pretty sexers. 

Alvis understands her need to fill the silence, the need to fill her hours with something, anything. He understands the fear that assaults her when she’s still. Memories of things she’s done, fear of what she could become were it not for Johnny and Pree and Alvis. It’s irrational, a half-formed, viscous entity that threatens to devour her if she lets it. She’d told him of it, once, as they lay in his room at the monastery, in one of those rare moments when she was content and amenable to sharing.

Alvis puts the bottle aside carefully, and then his hands are sliding up the sore, tired muscles of her back, to her scalp. He pulls at her hair just hard enough to send small sparks of pain-pleasure down her spine. His grey eyes are distant, and he seems calm, detached. Excitement ignites somewhere deep in her gut. 

“Wanna play, Scarback?”

Her nails dig into the sensitive skin of his neck and he bares his teeth. Dutch makes easy work of his cloak - it pools to the floor, exposing sweat-slicked shoulders. Dutch kisses her way down Alvis’ neck, sinks her teeth into the flesh at its base. She feels an odd sense of pleasure at the way the usually reserved monk moans quietly, and bites down hard enough to leave an imprint of her teeth on the tanned skin. 

He’d once told her most Scarbacks actually need the pain, after a while. Years and years of confessions, of hearing about the worst in people, it all adds up. And he has a closet full of his own skeletons, of course, to add to that. She knows that pain grounds him just as it does her, clears his head when he needs to detach from his vocation for a while. It’s a form of meditation, he’d said, and she remembers laughing at that. “Just feels damn good”, she’d shrugged then, resting her head on his chest and closing her eyes, feeling the soreness in her thighs and the sting of bruises on her back. 

When Alvis pulls her back into a kiss, it’s a probing, questioning one. She raises her arms, allowing his hands to travel up her slick forearms as he nudges her towards the wall. The cool metal feels good against her back, the contrast with Alvis’ hot skin delicious. She lets him press her wrists against the wall, lets him trap her. They’ve sparred often enough for both to know that she’s stronger than the Scarback, but for now, she lets him do as he will. His hip finds the space between her legs and she’s hoisted up, wrapping her legs around his thighs in one smooth movement. 

Feet digging into the small of his back, she presses him closer, the friction this creates making him hiss. He takes her small wrists into one hand, not letting her touch him. His other hand snakes under her loose shirt - one she’d stolen from Johnny’s wardrobe - blunt fingernails trailing up her spine. She arches into his touch, wanting more, and he gives her what she needs, his touch becoming harsher, fingers digging deeper. 

“Why do we still have so much clothes on?” Dutch asks, and Alvis chuckles, lowering her to stand on the floor. 

He reaches for her shirt; it’s much too big, and slides off her shoulders easily, leaving her in a pair of underwear, exposed to the warm summer air. Dutch steps forward and hooks her index fingers in the waistband of Alvis’ trousers. 

“Better?” He asks.

“A little. Lucy, lock the doors.”

“Yes, Dutch”. 

“You do know you have a bunk, right?” Alvis sounds amused. 

“Yeah, and it’s bloody hot in there. Come here.” 

Alvis obeys, brings his forehead to hers. Soft grey eyes meet hers, and she’s never been comfortable with this kind of intimacy, but she looks at him, holds his gaze stubbornly. She lets him see her as no other lover has, restless and vulnerable and, in this moment, willing - needing - to be weak.

“Tell me what you need”, he says, and something inside Dutch aches at the sweetness of him thinking of her needs despite his own state of arousal. 

“Make me forget.” 

So Alvis lowers her to the floor, and she closes her eyes. He straddles her, kisses his way down her chest and stomach, leaving a trail of warmth on her skin and making her squirm with anticipation. Her hands find his hair, fingers tracing the intricate braids. His teeth scrape along the waistband if her shorts, and Alvis holds her down as she attempts to arch towards him. She lets him, because tonight she doesn’t want to be the one in control, because she knows he will settle the memories racing in her head. 

Dutch makes a quiet noise of disappointment when she feels Alvis’ weight shift. She opens her eyes to see him rummaging for something in the small pile of their discarded clothing, and raises an eyebrow when she sees the glint of his ceremonial knife. 

“It helps”, he says simply. 

He straddles her hips again, his thighs trapping her. Her bare stomach heaves as he drags the knife between her breasts, teasing, making the adrenaline sing in her veins. Knives have always been a threat to her, something to set her fight or flight instinct off. Not now. Because it’s Alvis, because his free hand rests gently on her hipbone, his eyes scanning her face for a reaction. Because he is a steadfast, serene presence in her otherwise chaotic life. 

She moans as the knife nicks her over-sensitised skin. The flash of pain is bright and sharp, oddly rejuvenating. Alvis bends over her, the tip of his tongue trailing over the small cut.

“You okay?” he asks, breath tickling her breasts. 

“More than. Don’t stop.”

He leaves a trail of cuts where they can be easily hidden under clothing. Alvis is meticulous, skilful, cutting just deep enough to set her nerve endings alight but not cause too much damage. Dutch loses herself in anticipating each cut, holding her breath and exhaling with each short burst of pain. His hands are steady, his manner reverent, like every cut matters, like it’s more than just a way of coping with years worth of pent-up fear and anger and the exhausting need to be, always, always strong. 

Dutch rides the pain until it’s too much, until she’s drunk with it, until her body is screaming for release. She moves, pushes Alvis flat onto his back, and the sight of the knife in his hand, the smear of her blood on his mouth, makes her head swim. 

She kisses the Scarback, hard enough to bruise. Alvis sits up, holding her close, and she clumsily reaches between them to find the zip on his trousers, her hand shaking. She doesn’t bother to remove her underwear, just pushes it aside to lower herself onto his cock. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and he groans as she takes all of him in, his hands instinctively pulling her closer. 

She hides her face in his neck, his skin salty with sweat and smelling of sunshine. Alvis is whispering something she’s too adrenaline-drunk to understand, but the sound of his quiet voice is comforting, familiar. She kisses his skin, revelling in his warmth and his scent, the hardness of lean muscle beneath her hands and lips.

He moves his hips, and Dutch feels the burn of being stretched, the cuts on her stomach smarting as the two fall into a familiar rhythm. Alvis isn’t gentle with her, thrusting deep and hard, and she welcomes it. She holds onto him, arching her back as she feels the tip of the bloodied knife travel down her spine, tickling, teasing. 

“Look at me,” Alvis says, his voice hoarse. “Dutch.”

And she does, and marvels at the endless calmness in his eyes despite the lust-blown pupils, the control he exercises as he thrusts into her again, filling her. He stills, pressing her closer, and she resists mewling in discontent. 

“I’ve got you, Dutch,” Alvis whispers, “I’ll always be here when you need me.”

And then he shifts again, and drags the small blade across her back. The pain flares, and Alvis presses the blade deeper. It takes two more thrusts for Dutch to come, her whole body shuddering in release as pain and pleasure flood her. She chokes out Alvis’ name, prayer-like, gasps as he comes inside of her, his fingers digging into the fresh wound on her back. 

They collapse to the floor, Alvis’ head resting on her shoulder, knife thrown aside. He is panting, all semblance of control gone. Dutch laughs giddily, tracing the scars on his back with the tips of her fingers. She marvels at the beauty of them, a grim sort of bloody beauty that first drew her to Alvis. 

“And to think I once imagined that Scarbacks were strictly celibate”.

Alvis chuckles, presses a kiss to her forehead. He seems younger suddenly, lips kiss-swollen, smile earnest. 

“Where would the fun in that be?”

Dutch nestles into the crook of his arm, sated and sleepy. 

“Thank you.”

“Always at your service.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dolor est voluptas (Latin): pain is pleasure


End file.
